


The Peace of the Collective

by Hello_Spikey



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: This is a look at the mindfuckery of Horde Prime and Hordak's journey as he is reabsorbed into the hive mind.  It was a little challenging to write hive-pov, but worth it to get to the mindfuckery?
Relationships: Horde Prime/Horde Prime Clones (She-Ra)
Kudos: 4





	The Peace of the Collective

There are so many brothers, and most are calm, and so calm is the predominant sensation in the hive mind, a warm hum at the back of the brain, but there are flashes of unwanted passion. A brother has received the grace of a caress from Prime, and another feels jealousy, sharp and sudden, like a slap.

But a kindness to one is a kindness to all. Are they not all one? The brothers amplify and repeat the sensation of pleasure from their favored brother. They all feel cherished, feel the warmth of a hand on their cheek, and the ugly thought is washed away. The jealous brother himself can’t believe he felt that way.

One brother feels smug, that he has never once felt jealous of a brother, and then he feels all eyes on him, disapproving. The shock. They see he has been too used to having his mind to himself. He … is thinking of himself. His reaction. HIS shame.

Outwardly, he continues the duty he has been assigned, while inwardly he struggles not to think, to forget he was ever separate, ever had ambitions, or a name. (Don’t think it – Hordak – now don’t think it.)

It will get easier with time. He is grateful. Grateful to have been rebuilt. His muscles still quiver from the process, but his motions are efficient and orderly. He is routing equipment requests for the research lab. They have their hands full, preparing to process all the unique flora, fauna, and mineral properties of Etheria before they are destroyed. 

He would love to help. Lab work is his forte. Surely, he’d be more useful there. He wonders if he’s being kept near, but not in the labs, as a punishment.

He feels a collective gasp at the idea and his own shame echoes back at him. He should not have thought that. He wants to be one with the horde. He wants to serve wherever Prime sends him, and serve well. 

No, now he’s thinking of HIS reputation, HIS pleasing Prime. It was egotistical and he could feel the disapproval of his brothers seeping into him. He wanted to close his mind to them. He could. They can all disconnect briefly. Most do so gladly when in pain, to spare their brothers. He can feel how easy it would be, to drop away from the shame and judgement, but that would be selfish, that would not be surrendering to the whole.

He wishes he could reclaim the warmth of that moment, when Prime caressed his brother’s cheek, and they all felt blessed.

A hand touches his back. “Brother? Report to Prime.”

His reaction is brief, he’s proud of that. A flutter of nerves, smoothed to calm. It matters not if he is in Prime’s direct presence or at his work station or asleep. They are always in His presence, and that is a good thing.

He walks with purpose but not hurry and feels that Prime feels he is on his way.

He enters the throne chamber. Lord Prime leans his chin. “Little brother, you still struggle with individuality.”

He bows low. Perhaps too low. He’s overcompensating. “These thoughts are only remnants. I will defeat them.”

Prime’s frown deepens. “You’ve had days to adjust, and two cleansings. Do you still have memories?”

The cleansing is fresh, wounds still throbbing. “No, my lord.” There had been … no. He didn’t have memories. He didn’t WANT to have memories. His knees feel loose. He lets himself fall.

Prime’s eyes narrow further, even his extra eyes become slits of glowing disapproval. He had heard the thought, the half a thought, of course he did. “Please, my lord, forgive me. There have been ... feelings. Mere flashes.” He lowers his face, unable to bear seeing disappointment on the face of his god. “These memories of … autonomy… are offensive. I beg you to rid me of them, that I might serve you better.”

He holds himself still in the silence. He succeeds in not thinking, in leaving his mind, his soul open. There is something in him that rebels against this, that loathes vulnerability. It is a flaw, as sure as the re-fused bones in his back, the battle damage he will always carry, hidden but never, ever removed. No, he mustn’t think like that. He will be perfect again if he submits utterly. If there is no self, there is no flaw.

He succeeds, in laying himself bare before his rightful master. He has triumphed over his desires, if not over the pride in having done so. He feels raw, broken. Prime enters his mind almost lazily, takes his sight, his hearing … there is no malice in this, it is part test, part politeness, accepting the gift freely given. Each sense drops away until he can no longer feel the floor against his knees, the air expanding his lungs. He wrestles against his panic, keeps it subdued, keeps his consciousness from reacting, from retreating, from pushing Prime away. It is hard. What is HIM could shatter and fly apart. Perhaps it should.

His senses return, one at a time. Prime retreats, but maintains a presence in his mind, purposefully detectable.

Fabric falls with a whisper as Prime rises from his seat. “Rejoice, brother, for I have time to indulge in your education.” Prime steps, graceful and sure, closing the distance between them, and then passing, only the brush of air touching his subordinate. “Come, you will serve as my body servant this evening.”

This is an honor, where a punishment is expected. He doesn’t know what to feel. Perhaps that is the point. He rises and follows without word; none is needed.

The very best clones serve near Prime, and attend his relaxation. The micrometer-taller, the incrementally stronger, the unblemished. The differences are slight, but he feels every one of them as he trails in Prime’s wake past bodies just that slight bit straighter with faces all the more passive for not concealing pain.

As body servant, he has the honor of helping Prime disrobe. Prime’s costume is complex and ingenious, with tiny fastenings tucked out of sight, so that the whole seems more a part of him than a garment. Detailed instructions are handily stored in the hive mind archive, written by some anonymous brother, like so many guides and diagrams that allow each clone to step into whatever role he is needed in, as if without effort.

It pleases Prime for all to work with serene expressions, as though they are not hastily consulting documentation. The surface must be calm, all effort hidden, as though things happened of their own accord.

He is good at that. He is allowed to take pride, when it is in service to Prime.

Prime has selected one of the clones tending the chamber to entertain him for the evening. The clone in question is quite new, unblemished, and, very briefly, terrified. He blushes fetchingly as Prime beckons him forward. 

While their every thought and feeling must be transparent to Prime, their lord and master keeps himself opaque most of the time. Now, however, he generously shares his amusement, his delight, and a wonder if any of the clones present is feeling jealous. He might, perhaps, invite them forward, for there is pleasure to be shared. Prime tangles his fingers in the young clone’s hair and enjoys the sensation as their lips touch.

The body-servant is behind Prime, now, carefully sliding unfastened fabric from beneath the heavy coils of Prime’s headdress, moving in concert with the flexing muscles as Prime pulls his paramour closer. He feels Prime wonder if he is uncomfortable.

He feels Prime enjoying that.

The closing off of reaction is instinctual. Was this a habit, in his bad old days of failure? He feels shame, and feels Prime accept his shame … and misinterpret its cause. 

Prime is delighted at his lover’s shiver and reluctance, by the submission, the effort taken to override that reluctance, to not just perform as if enthusiastic, but to feel enthusiastic. As Prime bends his paramour and thrust into him savagely, the joy is dark, and clear, and sadistic.

No, he realizes, he who was Hordak, once, it was no accident Prime chose the only clone in the room who didn’t want to kiss him. And it was no accident Hordak was assigned near the labs but not in them. 

Hordak gathers the removed garments and lays them out while the rhythm of grunts and flesh increases behind him. He keeps his thoughts to himself, and chooses to keep doing so.

What surprises him most is that this time, there is no shame.


End file.
